redhills press

House Cats -- Terrorism Fighters

2012-01-20T19:48:00.004-05:00

Cooper the cat has been a member of our household here for several years now. In all that time, we've experienced not one single incident of terrorist attack.

That's got to tell you something.

Never mind JTF2; the RCMP; the Metropolitan Toronto Police; airport security and all the rest of those costly make-work organizations -- get yourself a cat and you'll be safe.

# # #

Teresa Brewer -- Old Man Mose

2012-01-12T22:05:00.002-05:00

# # #

Mainstream Media be Gone

2012-01-08T22:48:00.003-05:00

Movies, TV, radio, print -- all of it -- let it be gone from my life and your life. It's worthless filth -- the lot of it.

Watch, listen and read with your critical faculties honed, and you'll agree.

Get it out of your life and breathe some fresh intellectual air of your own making. Do yourself a favour and get that trash out of your life

# # #

Domar.ru

2012-01-05T21:44:00.002-05:00

There's a bit of silly filth crawling about the internet known as "domar.ru". Apparently, it's something known as 'referrer spam'. What 'referrer spam' is all about is beyond me; I'm not a highly knowledgeable computer user. All I know is that it distorts (inflates) my blogs' statistics, and I wish it would go away and throw itself upon and ignite its own funeral pyre. If you see it come up in your blog's stats, DO NOT CLICK ON IT! Clicking on it only enlivens it.

A bit of googling has told me that many others are having trouble with 'domar.ru', and would like to be rid of it.

What puzzles me is that it continues to exist. Google must know about it. How difficult could it possibly be for Google to make it easy for a blogger to tell it to go to Hell and send it there, or someplace very similar?

# # #

Christmas Day Closes, Feastly and Beastly

2011-12-25T23:27:00.004-05:00

There was a feast. (Queen Elizabeth, you should have it so good.)

There was a beast. (Cooper the cat got a catnip mouse present.)

A fabulous feast and a happy, drugged beast;

who could ask for anything more?

# # #

All Men Are Created Equal

2011-12-18T20:48:00.008-05:00

All men are created equal?

Bullshit!

What were the 'founders' of the American republic thinking when they composed that bit of codswallop and committed it to paper?

Equal?

Not flippin' likely!

Am I the 'equal' of an NHL hockey player? I don't think so. I weigh 135 lbs. soaking wet, I have skinny wrists and I can't skate. (And I said 'skinny', not 'limp'.)

'Equality' is a lot like 'freedom'.

Go without breakfast one morning, and come noon, ask yourself how 'free' you are.

Put on a pair of boxing gloves and step into a ring with an amateur, Olympics-level boxer, and ask yourself how 'equal' you are.

Now, none of the preceding is meant to discredit the notion of 'equality before the law'. That's a notion that's a necessary precondition for a just and decent civilization to function, but could we please dispense with such absurdities as "all men are created equal?" All men are quite demonstrably NOT created equal!

And if the 'founding fathers' of the USA were such clever fellows, how is it that they couldn't see that, and refine their wording accordingly? They were not an inarticulate bunch.

I have a theory.

I suspect that "all men are created equal" was their 'code' for telling the King of England, and all the 'nobles' in England, that "we money-grubbing, genociding new-world squatters and merchants are just as good as you inbred blue-bloods, so fuck off and don't interfere with us killing all the backward natives and stealing everything over here."

# # #

Quote du Jour

2011-12-08T19:18:00.001-05:00

“Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on or by imbeciles who really mean it.”

Mark Twain

# # #

Joke II

2011-12-02T20:03:00.007-05:00

[Filth alert!]

This is a genuinely, though not grotesquely, 'dirty' joke. It's not an "ever so slightly 'dirty' joke", like this one was.

This is a 'word play' joke -- one of my favourite kinds.

- - -

The Psychiatric Hospital

It seems there was this psychiatric hospital where the director was retiring after long and distinguished service. The retiring director was scheduled to meet and greet his replacement at 10:00 A.M., and show him around and introduce him to some of the inmates.

10:00 A.M. came, and so did the new director, right on time.

The retiring director and his replacement exchanged pleasantries and chatted a bit, then the retiring director invited his replacement to accompany him on a tour of the hospital's grounds, and to meet some of the hospital's inmates.

They went out to the beautifully landscaped, walled property surrounding the building. It was a warm July morning, and many of the inmates were out enjoying the pleasant weather and comporting themselves according to their particular 'conditions'.

They came upon an inmate swinging an imaginary baseball bat. The incoming director greeted him and said, "And what, if I may inquire, are you doing, my good man?"

The inmate rested his 'bat' on his shoulder, looked the incoming director square in the eye and said, "I'm up at bat for the Yankees in the World Series, and when I hit a home run over that wall, they're gonna let me outta here."

The incoming director said, "Very good. Keep at it , my good man. I'm sure you'll make your home run hit soon."

They walked a little further, and came upon an inmate swinging an imaginary golf club. The retiring director politely interrupted him and introduced the incoming director to him. The retiring director said, "And please, tell the hospital's new director what you're up to here."

The 'golfer' said, "I'm in the Masters' Tournament, and when I hit a hole-in-one, they're gonna let me outta here."

The retiring director wished the 'golfer' well, and the two continued on.

By a hedge by the furthest wall they came upon an inmate lying on his back on the grass. The inmate was stark naked, and sexually aroused as aroused could be. He had beside him a small bag of shelled, roasted peanuts. He'd take a peanut out of the bag, place it on the tip of his member, and thrust his pelvis upward causing the peanut to roll off. He did this repeatedly.

The incoming director coughed and said, "Good morning, my good man. And what, pray tell, are you 'up' to here?"

The inmate looked up at his questioner and said, "I'm fucking nuts, and they're never gonna let me outta here!"

# # #

"Locked and Loaded" -- or, 'Euphony Farts'

2011-11-29T21:18:00.006-05:00

The phrase "locked and loaded" has long puzzled me. It relates most specifically to preparedness to employ firearms, but it's always seemed to me to make more sense the other way 'round -- "loaded and locked". Here's the best explanation of it I've seen so far: (I got it from here.)

- - -

"Lock and Load"

The origin of the phrase "lock and load" is not entirely clear, as there are two similar, yet distinct, explanations for its origin. Regardless of its exact origin, the phrase has come to relate to any activity in which preparations have to be made for an immediate action.

One explanation of the phrase comes from the actions needed to prepare a flint lock rifle for firing. In order to safely load a rifle of this type it was necessary to position the firing mechanism in a locked position, after which the gun powder and ball could be safely loaded into the rifle barrel without any chance of the rifle misfiring.

The second explanation is that the phrase (as "load and lock") originated during World War II to describe the preparations required to fire an M1 Garand rifle. After an ammunition clip was loaded into the rifle the bolt automatically moved forward in order to "lock" a round into the chamber.

- - -

'Loaded and locked' is not so euphonious, though.

I suspect that when you hear an American politician use the phrase "locked and loaded", what you're hearing is a horse's ass blowing a euphony fart -- a bit of meaningless, good-sounding drivel meant to make the politician appear 'tough' -- tough on crime; tough on drugs; tough on terror; tough on whatever.

I further suspect that a great deal of what the mainstream media pass off as news/information ia nothing more than a whole stream of euphony farts.

# # #

A Job-Seeker's Employer Intelligence Test

2011-11-28T19:25:00.011-05:00

[This post creeps me out. It has about it an air of petty self-righteousness that don't think I should stoop to. And yet, it's fair. If the business-owning class can subject employment applicants to an examination of their competence and character, then surely the applicants ought to be entitled to do the same to the business owners.]

- - -

As an applicant for employment, one has every right to investigate the intelligence and conscientiousness of the people one might end up working for. My own experience with this is limited to employment as a computer/business-machines service technician, so here's an intelligence test that any applicant for such work should feel at liberty to administer during the course of his or her interview. (I'm sure that similar fundamental tests could easily be devised for other fields.)

- - -

If you'll be working, if hired, in a repair shop, ask the interviewer if you could see the shop's drill index. At the very least, the interviewer should be able to produce something like this:

An index with a full complement of sharp, serviceable drills, so that if a hole needs to be drilled in order to effect a repair, the wherewithal to do that is at hand. It's not too much to ask of a supposedly 'professional' operation.

If the interviewer doesn't know what a 'drill index' is, and/or can't produce one, the interviewee is well-advised to terminate the interview and leave -- an outfit that's allegedly a 'repair shop', but can't drill a hole, is a good place to be clear of.

If the interviewer presents something like this --

then the interviewee ought to say, "Sorry. This outfit is demonstrably way too bleeping stupid for me to waste my time on. There's a nice clue boutique at the mall. Why don't you go visit it and get one?"

# # #

Business and Commerce and Fear and Loathing and Literacy and Education and Tree Stump Stupidity and Pig-Ignorance and the Whole Damned Thing

2011-11-27T18:45:00.011-05:00

I'm going to attempt a new form of essay writing here -- an essay as a perpetual work in progress. The internet and blogging make it possible; this medium's possibilities never cease to amaze me. They've given me my very own, editor-free workshop magazine, and my very own open-ended printer service guide. What might George Orwell or Henry Ford have done with this medium? The mind boggles.

This thing is likely to ramble and meander. stop and start, pause and accelerate and occasionally puke down the front of its shirt and its pants and be thoroughly ashamed of itself -- I don't care. I've had a snoot-full of orthodox bullshit in sixty years, and I mean to cut loose.

What shall I start with? How about the technicalities of English grammar?

- - -

The Technicalities of English Grammar

Here are a few words that mean next-to-nothing to me:

- Conjunction

- Pluperfect (I love that one.)

- Preposition

- Subjunctive (WTF!?)

None of those four words means much of anything to me, yet I can speak and write the language reasonably well. Here we have a mystery.

I'm on record as being a great believer in the necessity of precise use of language in order to be able to convey the intricacies of, say, replacing the battery in a pickup truck, yet I'm not conversant with the technicalities of the language that conveys those intricacies. My connection with the language is pretty much entirely intuitive. And English is not my first language. My first language was Croatian. I learned English at about the age of five when I began school with all the other Canadian kids; I learned it in what seems to me now like an eyeblink. No 'teacher' taught me it. Could it be that our modern notions of 'education' are a falsity? That there is really no such thing as 'education'; there is only learning, and learning operates from the inside out, not from the outside in.

- - -

A Mouse at the Bottom of a Pail

2011-11-23T21:18:00.002-05:00

I wish I had a photo to go with this anecdote; I don't. The little incident happened a number of years ago, before I had the photography gear that I have now.

- - -

I had rigged a sunken pail to deal with a drainage problem by my basement workshop's back door (long story -- not one of my better ideas). One morning, I opened the door and saw a mouse in the bottom of the pail. The mouse was the picture of forlorn, hopeless dejection. Its tail was underneath its rump -- surely no way for a mouse to relate to its tail. The mouse quite obviously thought itself doomed; its posture was that of a creature awaiting death.

I put on a pair of work gloves, scooped up the mouse and took it to the back garden and set it free. It scampered off to live some more of its life.

- - -

I don't for one second believe that "...thought itself doomed..." is an example of anthropomorphizing here. The mouse thought itself doomed. That showed in its posture. However humble they may be, God's creatures know doom from freedom; they comport themselves accordingly.

# # #

Politically Incorrect?

2011-11-20T22:31:00.004-05:00

I seem to recall having read the following little poem very early in my life. I can't find anything near to it on the internet. Here's my transcription of it, as best as I can recall it:

- - -

"I am a little Hindu,

I do all I kin do.

Where my shirt and pants don't meet,

I make my little skin do."

- - -

There was an accompanying line drawing of a boy wearing shirt and pants that didn't meet at the waist.

# # #

And Another Train Song -- "Crack in the Boxcar Door" -- Hank Snow

2011-11-18T22:16:00.004-05:00

I'm 'on a roll' here, so to speak.

# # #

Another Train Song -- "The Wreck of the Old 97" -- Hank Snow

2011-11-18T21:55:00.003-05:00

It's a dim video, but the sound is good. Hear it out to the end -- it's a cautionary tale for the ladies.

- - -

# # #

A Train Song -- "The Wabash Cannonball" -- Hank Snow

2011-11-18T21:42:00.004-05:00

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Belling the Cat

2011-11-17T20:56:00.006-05:00

Belling the Cat

Æsop. (Sixth century B.C.) Fables.

Long ago, the mice held a general council to consider what measures they could take to outwit their common enemy, the cat. Some said this, and some said that, but at last a young mouse got up and said he had a proposal to make, which he thought would meet the case. “You will all agree,” said he, "that our chief danger consists in the sly and treacherous manner in which the enemy approaches us. Now, if we could receive some signal of her approach, we could easily escape from her. I venture, therefore, to propose that a small bell be procured, and attached by a ribbon round the neck of the Cat. By this means we should always know when she was about, and could easily retire while she was in the neighbourhood.”

This proposal met with general applause, until an old mouse got up and said: “That is all very well, but who is to bell the Cat?” The mice looked at one another and nobody spoke. Then the old mouse said:

“IT IS EASY TO PROPOSE IMPOSSIBLE REMEDIES.”

# # #

"Mississippi Queen"

2011-11-13T21:47:00.002-05:00

Too silly for words, but kinda fun to watch, and I like the song:

# # #

Ian Tyson -- "Summer Wages"

2011-11-13T20:11:00.002-05:00

The horse isn't lame, but the video is.

Nevertheless, it's a fine song.

# # #

Tina Turner -- "River's Deep; Mountain's High"

2011-11-13T18:59:00.003-05:00

# # #

LEGS!?!?!?!?!?!

2011-11-10T20:38:00.002-05:00

And where does she pull that 'flower' from at 1:32?

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Jambalaya -- Waylon Jennings

2011-11-09T21:31:00.001-05:00

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Bring it on Home to Me -- Eric Burdon and the Animals

2011-11-08T21:50:00.004-05:00

Here's a brief but very good bit of Eric Burdon and the Animals from 1965:

# # #

The Walrus and the Carpenter

2011-11-03T19:57:00.008-04:00

[One can't help but wonder what manner of recreational drug(s) Lewis Carroll was fond of ingesting.]

The Walrus and The Carpenter

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

- - -

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

# # #

The Owl and the Pussycat

2011-11-02T21:44:00.005-04:00

by Edward Lear

- - -

I

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!'

II

Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?'
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

III

'Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.'
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

# # #

"Runaway" -- Del Shannon

2011-10-31T21:58:00.003-04:00

# # #

Thought du Jour

2011-10-29T20:57:00.009-04:00

"Do not pray for easy lives.

Pray to be stronger men."

. . .

John F. Kennedy

- - -

I'm inclined to add to that -- "Do not pray. Do."

'Pray' is code for 'try'. 'Try', and a dollar and a bit, will buy you a small cup of coffee at Tim Horton's.

# # #

Stupid Quitting Smoking Techniques

2011-10-27T21:28:00.003-04:00

Years ago, when the 'quitting smoking' hysteria was notching up through the gears toward overdrive and I was still working for a major corporation, my employer beneficently funded my attendance at a 'quitting smoking' course.

Among many other things, the course suggested that we smokers do this -- dump a load of cigarette butts into a clear glass jar, add water, cap the jar and set it aside where we could see it and be so grossed out by the sight of it that it would help motivate us to quit.

I'd look at/into the jar and think, "Well, those cigarette butts certainly are soggy."

# # #

The Strangest Story I Have Ever Read in My Life

2011-10-26T21:36:00.007-04:00

Read this and ponder awhile.

- - -

That story, if one can believe a word of it, surely raises a few questions, like:

1) What manner of woman would leave her husband, two very young sons and a pretty decent job to go join the bleeping army to 'serve her country'? Might she not better serve her country by staying home and raising her sons decently?

2) What manner of husband would allow the woman to do so?

3) What is it with US Army NCOs and sex? Have they no other way to get some than by abusing their authority in a 'chain-of-command' hierarchy? These are 'men'?

If that story is word-for-word true, the USA is a lunatic asylum -- top-to-bottom; front-to-back; side-to-side.

I have a hard time believing a word of it.

The mind boggles.

# # #

The Wonder and Mystery of Language

2011-10-24T20:11:00.010-04:00

This is not an original idea -- I've encountered it before; I can't recall where or from who. The idea is this -- that words can be strung together in an infinite variety of meaningful ways, ways never before encountered and never to be encountered again, ad infinitum. And in English, it requires only twenty-six characters, no accent marks, to form the basis of that expression of infinity. Think about that -- out of twenty-six characters we spin infinity.

Consider an example from a previous post on this blog -- "Dark and mysterious white trash gitar^[1] smashin'." That's taken from the introduction to a music video I posted in September. In its context, it makes sense of a sort. That exact seven word sequence has probably never occurred before in the entire span of mankind's existence, and is unlikely ever to occur again. Twenty-six characters, not all twenty-six used there, made a little sliver of infinity. The mind boggles.

I can't get free of the thought that all of learning is the learning of language. Language is the foundation of everything.

- - -

[1] The misspelling of 'guitar' was deliberate. When 'guitar' is spelt 'gitar', the accent shifts over to the first syllable; the pronunciation is altered to mimic sub-literate/illiterate speech. And consider this -- the illiterate are not bereft of language; far from it. The illiterate are merely missing the key to the graphics.

# # #

Sisters of Mercy

2011-10-23T21:29:00.005-04:00

One of Leonard Cohen's most exquisite works.

I don't know what to make of this video. I think it needs a pinch of "white trash gitar smashin'".

"...graceful and green as a stem." Now there's a phrase to conjure with.

[Ok! I confess! I'm doing artsy bullshit here. It's kind of fun.]

# # #

Usury -- A Poem

2011-10-21T21:56:00.004-04:00

If I could,

I surely would,

Make money from thin air;

and charge you for the use of it.

- - -

But I can't,

So I can only rant,

And think

That the guillotine might be fair.

# # #

English 101 -- Disinterested/Uninterested

2011-10-20T21:36:00.003-04:00

The difference between 'disinterested' and 'uninterested' is subtle, yet huge.

'Disinterested' means 'having no dog in the fight'; i.e. having no vested or personal interest in the outcome of the matter at hand -- nothing to gain or lose from its resolution, however it may end up being resolved. One can be 'disinterested', yet be inclined to pay close attention to what transpires. A courtroom judge ought to be 'disinterested'.

'Uninterested' means 'don't give a shit' -- not the same thing at all.

# # #

Really Bad Haircut

2011-10-19T22:20:00.002-04:00

Joan Jett can do things with her face and her eyes that can't possibly be legal. She is a jewel.

# # #

Center/Centre

2011-10-18T22:08:00.003-04:00

The American spelling of 'centre' is 'center'; the spell-check feature on my computer reminds me of that often. I so wish that Americans would learn to spell 'centre' correctly.

Consider this -- is there any such place as Grand Centeral Station? No, there is not.

I rest my case.

# # #

Jabberwocky

2011-10-15T22:29:00.002-04:00

JABBERWOCKY

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

# # #

"I'm Crying" -- Eric Burdon and the Animals

2011-10-15T22:09:00.003-04:00

These guys are great. They speak English. How I love the sound of it.

# # #

Joke

2011-10-14T23:21:00.002-04:00

What do Grateful Dead fans say when they've run out of marijuana?

"Man. This band really sucks."

# # #

Not Fade Away

2011-10-14T23:17:00.001-04:00

# # #

Like a Hurricane

2011-10-14T22:38:00.002-04:00

A young Neil Young, having trouble with his tie. [!?]

# # #

Set in One's Ways -- or-- You'll Understand When You're Older

2011-10-14T20:20:00.003-04:00

My maternal grandmother was a force of nature. She and her ways were much with my family when I was a boy, and I recall often hearing, with respect to some behaviour of hers that I found odd or obnoxious, "She's old and set in her ways." Occasionally, that would be followed up with, "You'll understand when you're older."

Had I then the sparkling, profane vocabulary that I now possess, I might have had some breathtaking rejoinders for those bits of parental wisdom, but mostly I just shrugged and went away when I heard them.

'Turns out they were right. 'Turns out they were telling me truth.

At sixty, I'm old and set in my ways. And I'm older and I understand.

Imagine that.

# # #

In the Supermarket

2011-10-13T20:27:00.005-04:00

Late nineteen-fifties. A seven-year-old boy is in the Dominion store with his mom.

Monsters haven't been invented yet, so the boy is free to leave his mom's side and go for a wander.

The boy is in the aisle where bottled drinks are racked up on the shelves. There's a middle-aged man in dark clothing standing facing the shelves. Had the boy ever heard the term 'homeless person', he wouldn't have thought to apply it to the man. The man wasn't dapper, but he certainly didn't look wasted.

The boy sees the man reach for a small bottled drink, take it down off the shelf, unscrew the cap, take a swig of the drink, screw the cap back on the bottle and set the bottle back in place on the shelf.

The boy knows he's witnessed a wrongness, but the boy knows, as if by instinct, that no good will come from telling anyone of it.

The boy rejoins his mom. One more little piece of the world's infinite capacity for oddness has been revealed to him.

# # #

Coercive Cat

2011-10-12T19:47:00.008-04:00

I swear that our cat, Cooper, knows how to play me like a fiddle. Permit me to tell you a little of our house's layout before I explain that further.

Our two-story house is a bit unorthodox in that the master bedroom is on the ground floor. That bedroom's door opens onto a hallway that leads to the big kitchen at the back of the house. So, the master bedroom is right near the kitchen, where Cooper's food is kept and where he's fed.

On weekend mornings, I like to get up early and have a couple of leisurely cups of coffee before breakfast. My wife likes to sleep in. I get up, close the bedroom door behind me, give Cooper his breakfast in the kitchen and start up the coffee maker; Cooper shouldn't need to be fed again for hours. I go have a smoke in my workshop while the coffee brews, then I go back to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and return to the workshop with it.

That coffee and the internet occupy me for, say, twenty minutes -- half-an-hour at the outside. I go back to the kitchen for a second cup of coffee, and Cooper joins me and starts up with his "Feed me! Feed me!" meowing. He's had his breakfast not long ago, but Cooper really loves to eat, and he knows he's got me. He knows my wife wants to sleep in and I want to let her. And he knows that if I don't feed him again to shut him up, his meowing will wake my wife. So I feed him again and go away with my second cup of coffee.

Twenty minutes to half-an-hour later, I go back upstairs to fetch in the newspaper and make my breakfast, and Cooper starts up meowing again. I feed him again to shut him up. The calculating little feline has coerced me into serving him two extra breakfasts. 'Dumb' animal? I don't think so.

# # #

Rawhide

2011-10-11T21:30:00.003-04:00

American bullshit at its absolute best. I grew up watching this stuff on TV -- I loved it!

Bullshit or not, it's an excellent piece of music.

Note who played Rowdy Yates, the 'foreman' -- a very young Clint Eastwood .

# # #

A Visitor to the Backyard

2011-10-10T18:01:00.006-04:00

This little guy showed up on the lawn this afternoon. 'Quite a handsome little creature. Just as I was approaching it with my camera, I saw its tongue flick out and nab a fly.

Yummy.

- - -

The Toad's Poem

[Transcribed as dictated to me by the toad -- I swear.]

- - -

Blades of grass.

A piece of ass.

A fly on the wing.

What other thing

do I need

to be whole,

and at peace with my maker?

# # #

English 101 -- The Verbs Sweat, Perspire, Glow

2011-10-09T19:58:00.006-04:00

Horses 'sweat'.

Men 'perspire'.

Women 'glow'.

'Got it?

# # #

Thumbnail Dreck Review

2011-10-09T09:07:00.003-04:00

Title: You Kill Me
American Crime/Romance Comedy/Dreck

It stars Ben Kingsley, Téa Leoni and Luke Wilson

Days in the life of an alcoholic hit man -- whatever.

Should you pick this up when you're in your local movie rental place, read the jacket and think, "This looks ok for a Saturday evening movie.", think again. Do yourself a favour. Put it back in its place on the rack and leave it there for a hazmat team to deal with. Find something else. Do not waste one more millisecond of your life on it. Do not pay money to rent it.

It's the sort of thing that the word 'dreck' was coined for. It's the sort of thing that can make you want to emigrate to Cuba and join the Cuban army. Have I made myself clear yet?

MMVII. 93 minutes. Canadian 14A rating. (It ought to be rated 'PD' -- post death -- only fit for viewing by dead people.)

# # #

Elizabethan Serenade -- and an Accompanying Anecdote

2011-10-08T14:54:00.003-04:00

Here's a change of pace from music I've been posting so far. (I have no idea what Dublin, Ireland has to do with it, but someone must have thought the two go together.)

And here's the anecdote:

Very early sixties, it must have been. My older sister was much taken with this piece, and her birthday was coming up. Eleven-or-so-year-old genius that I was, it occurred to me to buy her a 45 rpm recording of it for a birthday gift.

I trekked up to the record store on the south side of Danforth Avenue, a few blocks north of home. 'Went inside the store and was confronted by a formidable array of record racks, and a middle-aged lump of a woman in a black dress behind the sales counter. I hadn't a clue where or how to begin to find the title. Naif that I was, I thought, "The lady will know about it."

I went up to the counter and asked if she had "Elizabethan Serenade". She favoured me with a dumb-as-a-keg-of-nails look and handed me a "CHUM Chart"^[1]. It dawned on me that I was in the wrong place for to find a copy of "Elizabethan Serenade", and that maybe the world of business and commerce wasn't all it's cracked up to be. I trekked back home disappointed.

I don't recall what, if anything, I ended up getting my sister for a birthday gift.

- - -

[1] CHUM was the local top-forty radio station. Every week they published the 'CHUM Chart'.

# # #

River Road -- Two Versions

2011-10-07T20:32:00.018-04:00

Sylvia Tyson wrote this song. I've seen her perform it solo in a manner that can move one to tears, but I couldn't find a video of it on the internet. This link is for a duet version -- Sylvia Tyson and Emmylou Harris. Sylvia Tyson's voice is Canada. Canada is Sylvia Tyson's voice. I know of no other way to put it.

Crystal Gayle and the Muppets [!] covered it with a version that has a sappy, happy ending tacked on. I had it up here but YouTube pulled it for copyright infringement. I notice now that there's a game of Whack-A-Mole going on with that. Here's the Muppets-accompanied video from French TV.

We'll see how long that stays up before the copyright police off it.

# # #

Leaky Libertarianism

2011-10-07T08:50:00.010-04:00

The libertarian auto expert at LewRockwell.com has his knickers in a twist today about the State of Virginia's vehicle safety inspection criteria. Here's a quote from the post:

- - -

"The law – written by bureaucrats and politicians, not technicians or even people who do their own oil changes – says he [the inspecting mechanic] can’t fail a car for brake problems even if the area around the wheel cylinders (a hydraulic piston with rubber seals) is clearly moist – sure evidence of a leak. And if a hydraulic system such as your car’s brakes is leaking, it means your brakes probably aren’t working right – or soon won’t be. But my friend can’t fail you unless he sees drips – not merely evidence of moisture. Because he’s not allowed to check further. He – by law, as he explained it to me – cannot probe/pull back or otherwise look behind the rubber dust boots on the wheel cylinders to check to see why the area around there is moist. Because bureaucrats – people who know nothing about cars or how they work – decided this would result in possible damage to the rubber dust boots..."

- - -

That's a good example of how ideologists will pick up any piece of tripe, declare it a football and run for the goalposts with it.

Moisture around a wheel cylinder is evidence of seepage, not a leak. Seepage from a hydrualic system is one thing; leaks are another. Seepage is not good, but it's not a sign of imminent failure. As for 'checking further' by looking behind the rubber dust boots, all that would reveal is what's already in evidence -- seepage.

The lesson to take from this is not that the State of Virginia allows unsafe vehicles on the road; the lesson to take is "beware of automotive writing" -- of any political stripe. Most, if not all of it, is little more than oft-repeated plausible orthodox hogwash.

# # #

Sixteen Tons (Go-Go Version)

2011-10-06T21:56:00.003-04:00

You figure it out. I was growing up while this sort of thing was going on. Is it any wonder I turned out as I did?

# # #

Now This is Entertainment!

2011-10-05T20:38:00.002-04:00

# # #

Wall Street -- What Would Jesus Do?

2011-10-05T13:07:00.001-04:00

# # #

"When I Was Young" -- Eric Burdon and the Animals

2011-10-04T21:54:00.004-04:00

I have very mixed feelings about this piece, but I keep being drawn back to it. It dwells in a space that dwelt between my dad and I. How I wish that space could ever have been spanned.

# # #

The 'Life' of a Tool

2011-10-03T10:14:00.010-04:00

I'm beginning to empathize deeply with the tools in my basement workshop at home.

In my opinion, those tools are all dumb as a post. I have no expectation that they might have anything to offer me in the way of advice or ideas, and I don't consult them. Unless and until I have need of one, they all remain idle in their places.

Those tools are to me as I am to my employer, and for awhile now, this tool has been metaphorically hanging on a hook. (Interesting freudian slip I just made and corrected back there -- I had misspelled 'metaphorically' 'meataphorically' -- 'Metaphorically hanging on a meat hook?') The shop's been low on work for several days now, and I'm pretty much just taking up space around here.

I could find ways to look busy, I suppose, but I've never been keen on futility. There is a great deal that ought to be done around here to make this shambles of a repair shop function as it ought to, but those sorts of things reside in management's purview, not labour's; they require a bit of resource allocation authority. And since management appears to be perfectly content with the shambles, bleep it.

Business and commerce -- you've gotta love it.

# # #

Low-Budget Terrorism

2011-10-01T17:49:00.037-04:00

[DISCLAIMER: CSIS, DHS, whoever -- please note that I do not advocate terrorism, nor would I ever be inclined to practise it. I'm merely making some observations here.]

- - -

It long ago occurred to me that terrorism could be cheaply done, with little if any bloodshed, yet be very effective at 'terrorizing' a civilian population. That said, with all the 'threats' out there that we're warned about, it seems odd that since 9/11 there has actually been very little terrorism unleashed on the West.

I never pursued that idea but, just recently, and quite serendipitously, I came across a very eloquent expansion on it from an anonymous Australian.

I was poking around at Ran Prieur's website for something to read to take my mind off my unspeakably stupid job when I came across it. Here's the link to the source. Following is a better looking reprint of the item. (I've edited it a bit only to clean up little spelling and punctuation errors.) The anonymous Australian does a superb job of making a valid point.

- - -

From www.politechblog.com: (The date on it is 10 Jul 2003.)

[Anyone who's ever explored the steam tunnels under a university can attest to this! --Declan]

- - -

Declan:

This discussion prompts me to offer a thought I've had for some time. I belong to an Australian ad hoc group of 'urban infiltration' enthusiasts. We explore civil infrastructure of all kinds -- whatever we can find and get into, regardless of its supposedly 'off limits' status. There are branches of our group in most major cities in Australia. Naturally, we keep records of what we find, to share with other people with like interests. We also communicate with similar groups overseas. It is quite a common pastime, both in the USA, and Europe, and doing a google for 'infiltration', 'draining', 'souterrains', 'urban exploration', etc. will turn up many web sites of such groups world wide.

Anyway, getting back to the point. Over the years, it becomes glaringly obvious to explorers such as ourselves, that almost all of the critical infrastructure of large cities is totally vulnerable. Electricity, water, gas, communications, sewage, drainage, rail -- all of them could be shut down over wide areas for days or weeks by simple acts of vandalism at remote and unguarded locations. If several different services were taken out at once, in ways requiring significant effort to repair (not difficult to arrange), it might be very hard to organize the restoration of services within a timescale compatible with maintenance of social order within a large city.

We joke among ourselves that it's lucky we just like looking and taking pictures, because if we wanted to it would be child's play to totally shut down virtually any city. There are just too many critical services exposed in too many places, almost all of them with little or zero security (and virtually impossible to provide security). In the present 'crisis', there have been some ostentatious (but not very effective) upgrades to security at prominent landmarks and key facilities. For instance, the Sydney Harbour Bridge now has a few security guards on foot patrol, and a few more video cameras. But even that national icon would still be vulnerable to a determined and creative attack. Elsewhere, at less visible but still critical locations, there have been precisely zero changes in security arrangements.

And yet, so far there do not seem to have been any serious incidents of infrastructure sabotage, in any of the 'coalition of the willing' countries. Or anywhere else not actually in the middle of a war, for that matter.

To those of us with some interest in politics, this is an interesting contradiction to official assertions of frequent impending terrorist attacks. If I were one of these hypothetical terrorists, with a grudge against western nations, I suspect the idea of causing great economic havoc would be just as attractive as committing acts of mass murder. Possibly more so, actually, since it would make a point without at the same time creating violent nationalistic hatred of whatever cause was motivating me.

So, we have two observations:

1. It would be easy for anyone wishing to massively disrupt society, to successfully attack the crucial infrastructure (and escape free).

2. Such attacks do not seem to occur. Instead we have (in the USA) one instance of spectacular, suicidal, localized destruction (WTC), and one instance of a generally disruptive (but politically targeted) biological attack. (The anthrax mailings.)

The only possible conclusion is that there is simply no one seriously interested in committing major infrastructure attacks. And that implies there are actually no true (or even wannabe) 'terrorists' among us. And never have been.

Which in turn implies that all the actual and threatened attacks were not initiated by 'terrorists' (as advertised on TV), but by people with quite different motivations.

As for who they are, and their motivations, I notice the rest of the internet has a few things to say about that. Hovever, it is curious to note that our governments, while doing their best to scare the citizenry with tales of impending attacks, and making a great show of upgrading security around high visibility 'targets', tend to be doing virtually nothing of substance to protect the real soft and vulnerable spots of our society -- the critical service infrastructure of the cities.

It's as if our governments are certain these targets will not be attacked. Which is quite fortunate, since the effort required to harden all that infrastructure, including things like the fiber optic lines, and create a truly 'secure society', would be astronomical. I suggest that the ideal of a 'secure society' would be completely beyond the realm of the possible. Physically, it would require the laws of thermodynamics to be suspended. (More energy needed to run the security apparatus than the rest of society.) Economically, nothing could be profitable under the burden of massive security system cost overheads. Politically, it would require the elimination of almost all freedoms.

If there were any real terrorists, our entire western way of life would be untenable. The combination of technology and centralization makes us just too vulnerable to survive determined and creative attacks on our infrastructure.

Regards,

[deleted]

I'd appreciate if you would remove my name, etc, if you publish this.

# # #

Ron Paul

2011-10-01T09:48:00.012-04:00

A lot of people are enthused about and encouraged by U.S. Congressman Ron Paul's bid for the 2012 presidential election. I can't get the least bit worked up over it.

I have one, and only one, question with respect to a Ron Paul presidency: "How long will the 'powers that be' allow Ron Paul to go on living should he be elected president?"

a) Five seconds?

b) To half way through his inauguration speech?

c) To the first move he makes to actually dismantle an offshore U.S. Armed Forces base?

First correct answer wins a plaster cast of President Ron Paul's exit wound for the mantlepiece.

(And the 'powers that be' are no doubt selecting a patsy for the role of 'lone gunman' as I write this.)

* * *

Addendum -- SUNDAY, OCTOBER 2, 2011

I ran the above item by someone whose opinion I greatly respect, and his take on it was that an assassination of Ron Paul couldn't be gotten away with now, as Kennedy's assassination in 1963 was gotten away with. Fair point. Certainly, there was no internet in 1963. He added that Ron Paul won't get near the White House -- he'll get shunted aside to preclude any possibility of his being elected.

However, I still think Ron Paul could get elected, were that to serve the interests of the 'powers that be'. Now, the manner in which Ron Paul's election could serve those interests might well turn out to be grotesque, but serve it would. Here's a scenario that I think is eminently plausible:

- - -

Ron Paul ascends to the podium to deliver his inauguration speech. He gets through the opening banalities, and is just getting going on his vision of an America that hews to its constitution when a shot rings out. The right side of Ron Paul's skull explodes outward and he falls dead.

A Secret Service agent drags his body off the podium and flings it aside.

From chairs behind the podium rise six men whom no one recognizes. One of them takes the podium and begins to speak.

"Ok, people. This charade has outlived its usefulness. I and my associates here are the owners of America, and everything and everyone in it, and we have the papers to prove it. If you needed to know our names, you'd know them, but you don't need to know.

As Americans, you all have one fundamental duty -- to go out and rack up debt.

Dismissed!"

# # #

Beauty, eh?

2011-09-30T21:49:00.006-04:00

Aa Bb Cc Dd Ee Ff Gg Hh Ii Jj Kk Ll Mm Nn Oo Pp Qq Rr Ss Tt Uu Vv Ww Xx Yy Zz.

0123456789.

Many fine things can be made/learned from those.

And we're supposed to believe that it takes thirteen years to 'educate' a person?

I don't think so.

# # #

Clementine

2011-09-29T21:31:00.002-04:00

Here's a bunch of guys I'd be be proud to hang out with. (They're not big on long-term grieving, though. Hear the whole thing out and you'll get what I mean.)

# # #

The USA -- Stockholm Syndrome Writ Large?

2011-09-28T14:22:00.006-04:00

One watches the slow motion train wreck going on south of the border and wonders, "Why don't Americans descend en masse upon Wall Street and Washington D.C., with pitchforks and tar and feathers and rope and deal with the criminals?" Could it be because virtually the entire USA is in the grip of Stockholm syndrome?

Here's the opening bit from Wikipedia's entry on Stockholm syndrome:

"In psychology, Stockholm syndrome is a term used to describe a real paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein hostages express empathy and have positive feelings towards their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them. These feelings are generally considered irrational in light of the danger or risk endured by the victims, who essentially mistake a lack of abuse from their captors for an act of kindness."

I may be onto something here. 'Explains a lot.

# # #

"Tobacco Road" -- Eric Burdon and the Animals

2011-09-27T20:50:00.001-04:00

Eric Burdon at his bluesiest best. There's some stunning blues guitar that starts up at 2:34.

# # #

An Ever so Slightly 'Dirty' Joke

2011-09-27T19:43:00.006-04:00

[The CEO at the small company I work for told me this joke, so it must be ok. Businessmen can do no wrong in this world, right?]

- - -

It seems there was this multi-billionaire who was looking to marry.

He'd met and dated several likely young women, and had narrowed the field down to three that he thought might be worthy of proposing marriage to.

To narrow that field of three down to the 'right' one, he set the three young women a test of sorts. He gave each of them five million dollars, and told them to do as they pleased with it -- no conditions; no strings attached.

The first young woman went out and blew the five million on diamond jewellery and Gucci handbags and all manner of costly frills.

The second young woman went out and bought a big house in a gated community, fine furnishings for every square inch of the house and seven BMWs -- one for each day of the week.

The third young woman went out and made some shrewd investments. In a matter of weeks, she managed to parlay her five million dollars into twenty-five million dollars.

Which one of the three young women did the multi-billionaire propose to? [Scroll way down for the punch line.]

The one with the biggest tits and the best thighs.

# # #

Economic Collapse -- And Then What Happens?

2011-09-27T18:27:00.007-04:00

Ok. Let's suppose that at the next tick of the second hand on your wrist-watch, the Canadian dollar's value falls to zero. What will become of Canada and Canadians?

Will Canadians all cease drawing breath and die?

Will all the buildings fall down?

Will all the raccoons in Toronto cease rummaging through the garbage for stuff to eat?

Will all the rocks and trees north of where I am evaporate?

Will the sun go out?

No? None of the above will happen? Then what the bleep do we need dollars and bankers for anyway? Why, exactly, do we we permit ourselves to be 'governed' by an inane abstraction? I'd really like to know.

# # #

Screamin' Jay Hawkins -- "I Put a Spell on You"

2011-09-26T20:46:00.005-04:00

Go to 0:44 to skip the introductory crap.

This guy could have been an opera singer. For that matter, this is way better than any 'opera' I've ever heard.

# # #

Housefly Feet on my Cigarettes

2011-09-25T22:05:00.003-04:00

There's a housefly in the workshop with me, and there's an open deck of smokes with two smokes left in it on the Workmate right by me.

I just now saw the fly light on the smokes, and traipse about all over them -- filter-tip ends and everywhere.

Imagine where those six fly feet may have been just recently.

Yuck.

Oh well, there are scarier prospects in this world, and smokes these days are too costly to waste.

Skol!

P.S. I just nailed the little bastard -- swatted him right well. His cigarette-traipsing days are over. (Or it may have been a 'her'. I don't know. Insect sexing was not on the curriculum in any of what I had for an education.)

# # #

Live to Die; Die to Live

2011-09-25T21:19:00.004-04:00

Tomorrow morning, I must get up and die and go to hell. That's where I 'earn' the money that keeps me alive, so I can get up the next morning and die and go to hell again.

And around and around I go.

And back and forth across the 401 I go.

And money changes hands.

And the interest payments get made to the bankers.

- - -

Is this the best we can do?

Is there really no other way?

I don't believe it.

I smell a racket.

# # #

The Dave Clark Five -- "Bits & Pieces"

2011-09-25T20:27:00.002-04:00

# # #

The Yardbirds -- "Heart Full of Soul"

2011-09-25T20:14:00.002-04:00

# # #

A New Literary Genre

2011-09-25T09:51:00.018-04:00

I seldom have much to say about anything, which explains a lot about this blog. I can't help but envy those writers who can rap off a coherent, compelling essay of considerable length on any topic, seemingly effortlessly.

But, occasionally, I come up with something to say about something, and now and then manage a nice turn of phrase or two. (Or so I flatter myself to think.)

So, it occurred to me to come up with a literary form for those who have little to say -- I'm calling it the 'micro-essay'^[1]. The idea is to take any little topic that may present itself, no matter how trivial, and write whatever little one might have to say about it. Here's my first attempt:

* * *

Closure

My basement workshop has a heavy double back door that opens onto a ramp leading out and up to the backyard. In good weather, it's ever so pleasant to be in the workshop with the door open on one side.

When we first moved into the house, those doors and their frame were in a pretty wretched state, and I thoroughly reconstructed the things, taking great care to ensure that the doors fit and closed snugly and perfectly.

Now, any conventional door, when wide open, presents its entire surface to view and access; a spider seeking a perch might perch anywhere on the door's surface. But at the hinged edge of such a door, as the door is closed, a narrow strip of the door's surface quickly disappears as the door swings shut against the stop moulding or frame. What had been a fine open surface for a spider to perch upon suddenly becomes one plate of a press.

Needless to say, that's 'closure' for any spider who happens to perch at just the wrong place on an open door. Hence, the well-and-truly flattened spiders I see now and then near the hinged edge of the door.

The spiders seem never to see it coming. I suppose if you're a spider, you're quite accustomed to having whatever you're perched upon move about on you, as from a breeze. The closing door's motion isn't perceived to be a threat, and squish it is.

* * *

And there we are; a micro-essay.

Now, another reason I seldom have much to say about anything is that I simply don't know enough about much of anything to presume to write about it at any length. Permit me to explain with another micro-essay:

* * *

The Futility of Political 'Opinion'

I read a lot of stuff off the internet, and from my layman's perspective, this is where it all leaves me:

On any political issue whatsoever that you care to name, in the span of an hour, I can read coherent, compelling arguments for any and every conceivable side of the issue. Any example would do, but let's consider the Israel/Palestine brouhaha.

There are writers who write coherently and compellingly about how Israel is a gleaming jewel of democratic civilization amidst a hostile collection of barbaric states, deserving of the West's unflinching, unstinting support in perpetuity at any cost.

There are also writers who write coherently and compellingly about how Israel is itself a barbaric state (witness its treatment of the Palestinians) that ought to be nuked until it's a sheet of glass.

I am not prepared to devote my life to studying the matter, and that appears to me to be what it would take for me to qualify myself to have an opinion. Alternatively, I could pick a camp and spout its tenets -- bleep that.

For what little it's worth, with respect to this example, I'm inclined to agree with the 'nuked until it's a sheet of glass' crowd, but that's just my marginally-informed 'opinion'. I wouldn't presume to attempt to elaborate on it and publish it.

* * *

[1] The 'squib' would be a close relative of the 'micro-essay', but not exactly the same thing.

# # #

More Gitar Smashin' Porn -- Baskery -- "One Horse Down"

2011-09-24T18:20:00.002-04:00

Yeehah! Dark and mysterious white trash gitar smashin'. I can't get enough of this stuff.

# # #

More Joan Jett -- 'I Hate Myself for Loving You'

2011-09-23T20:39:00.002-04:00

# # #

Gitar Smashin' Porn

2011-09-23T20:29:00.003-04:00

I can forgive Joan Jett anything. (Watch carefully for her eyes at 1:27 -- amazing.)

# # #

'Crimson and Clover' -- Tommy James and the Shondells

2011-09-23T20:16:00.002-04:00

# # #

Flip Flops

2011-09-23T12:16:00.008-04:00

There's a woman at my workplace who wears these abominable things. When she walks by, I get treated to the accompanying sound effects -- slap, slap, slap, slap.

Aarrrgggghhhhhh!

Perhaps I'm too easily grossed out, but to my ears, that's one of the grossest noises on earth -- the very essence of slovenliness. Slovenliness, thy name is 'flip flops'.

One wants to shout, "Will you put some shoes on your feet, you stunned bimbo!?", but one keeps shut, and endures.

I've got to find a way to retire.

# # #

William Barker -- Canadian WWI Ace Fighter Pilot

2011-09-23T09:25:00.009-04:00

Whatever you may think of warfare and its practioners, and I'm not a big fan of them, William George Barker was a remarkable man.

A Manitoba farm boy born in 1894, Barker served In the Royal Air Force on the western and Italian fronts throughout WWI. The deadly marksmanship he'd honed on the farm in Manitoba proved to be equally at home in the air over Europe, and Barker racked up an impressive number of kills.

In an unfortunate sortie over France late in the war, Barker was seriously wounded in a dogfight. In what must have been a very near thing, he was able to get his aircraft back to behind Allied lines, and land it where life-saving help was available.

He received many decorations. A plaque on his tomb describes him as "The most decorated war hero in the history of Canada, the British Empire, and the Commonwealth of Nations."

In 1930 at the age of 35, Barker lost control of an aircraft during a demonstration flight for the RCAF near Ottawa, Ontario. He died in the crash.

Pictured below is a Sopwith Camel, Barker's favourite aircraft.

# # #

Golden Earring -- Radar Love

2011-09-22T21:47:00.002-04:00

The absolute greatest of all the one-hit wonders ever. I love this song, but the lead singer ought to go home and tell his mom that she dresses him funny.

# # #

More Stompin' Tom -- Sudbury Saturday Night

2011-09-22T20:48:00.003-04:00

# # #

"Bud the Spud" -- Stompin' Tom Connors

2011-09-22T20:40:00.002-04:00

# # #

Ways to Not Vote

2011-09-22T15:07:00.013-04:00

There's a provincial election coming up in Ontario on October 6th and, of course, until then the citizens can look forward to many exhortations to get out and vote. I gave up on voting long ago, so the authorities and the media can exhort away to their hearts' content; I'll take a pass on the privilege, thanks. (This essay by Fred Reed on the subjects of democracy and voting is well worth a read.)

- - -

Until just recently, I hadn't given it much thought, but it seems there's more than one way to not vote.

My way of not voting is simply to not go to the polling station and not vote. That's by far the easiest way to not vote, and the time it saves can be put to better use; e.g. having a beer and a smoke.

Another way to not vote is to spoil your ballot. You go through all the motions of voting, but once in the booth with your ballot you scrawl on it, or write in 'Stompin' Tom Connors' or 'R2-D2' or whoever.

A third way is to go the the polling station and formally state that you choose to decline your ballot. The deputy returning officer is then obliged to write 'declined' on the back of the ballot, and ensure that the ballot is counted as a declined, not spoiled, ballot.

That third way of not voting is not well publicized, and there's an Ottawa-based outfit known as Democracy Watch that thinks it ought to be. I take it that their thinking is that citizens ought to be aware that they have a legitimate means of 'protesting'; of effectively voting for 'none 0f the above' and having the vote counted.

Pretty lame form of protest, if you ask me.

I can think of several way more, shall we say, 'compelling', forms of protest. Needless to say, I'm not going to be so foolish as to elaborate on any of them in writing on the internet. And if I let my paranoia off its leash, I can easily imagine that after one leaves the polling station having declined one's ballot, a little mark might be made by one's name on the list of eligible voters indicating 'malcontent' -- for reference purposes once the re-education camps are in place and operational, perhaps.

All things considered, I'll stick with my preferred way of not voting, and hoist a brew to Democracy Watch from the comfort of my basement workshop come October 6th.

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American Generals at Work

2011-09-22T08:44:00.011-04:00

Do the names Custer, Sheridan or Sherman ring a bell?

The following reprinted article tells something of their exploits in making the American West safe for the railroads. (This is where I got the article from.)

- - -

The Birth of American Imperialism

by Thomas J. DiLorenzo

In The Costs of War (edited by John Denson), historian Joseph Stromberg referred to the Spanish-American War of 1898 as a "trial run" for the American empire. The war had nothing to do with national defense and was purely an act of imperialism on the part of the U.S. government, which gained control over Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guam, and the Philippine Islands. It led the renowned late nineteenth-century libertarian scholar, William Graham Sumner of Yale, to compose a famous essay entitled "The Conquest of the United States by Spain." The essay described how the war transformed America from a constitutional republic into an imperialist power, just like the old Spanish Empire it defeated in the war.

Sumner also forecast what was to come, and what America is today: the policeman of the world, with a military presence in over 100 countries, with endless meddling in the affairs of just about everyone on the planet. As he wrote in War and Other Essays, "We were told that we needed Hawaii in order to secure California. What shall we now take in order to secure the Philippines? . . . . We shall need to take China, Japan, and the East Indies . . . . in order to ‘secure’ what we have. Of course this means that . . . we must take the whole earth in order to be safe on any party of it, and the fallacy stands exposed."

Stromberg’s analysis of the importance of the Spanish-American War as a "trial run" for American imperialism is an astute analysis, but the real trial run actually occurred more than thirty years earlier during what Stromberg called the U.S. government’s war against "internal independent nations," i.e., the Plains Indians. That is where the real template of American imperialism was set, with its demonization of the Indians as inhuman "wild beasts"; the mass murder of everyone and everything, women, children, and animals included; and the policy of unconditional surrender. Indeed, it may even be argued that the War to Prevent Southern Independence was itself a "trial run" for the twenty-five year war on the Plains Indians.

Sherman’s War of Extermination

As soon as the War to Prevent Southern Independence was concluded the U.S. government commenced a new war against the Plains Indians. On June 27, 1865, barely two months after the end of the war, General William Tecumseh Sherman was given command of the Military District of the Missouri, which was one of five military divisions the government had divided the country into. There was never any attempt to hide the fact that the war against the Plains Indians was, first and foremost, an indirect subsidy to the government-subsidized transcontinental railroads. Railroad corporations were the financial backbone of the Republican Party, which essentially monopolized national politics from 1865 to 1913, beginning with the election of the first Republican President, the renowned railroad industry lawyer/lobbyist, Abraham Lincoln of the Illinois Central.

General Sherman wrote in his memoirs (p. 775) that as soon as the war ended, "My thoughts and feelings at once reverted to the construction of the great Pacific Railway . . . . I put myself in communication with the parties engaged in the work, visiting them in person, and I assured them that I would afford them all possible assistance and encouragement." "We are not going to let a few thieving, ragged Indians check and stop the progress [of the railroads]," Sherman wrote to Ulysses S. Grant in 1867 (See Michael Fellman, Citizen Sherman, p. 264).

Lincoln’s old personal friend Grenville Dodge, who he had appointed as a military general, initially recommended that slaves be made of the Indians so that they could be forced to dig the railroad beds from Iowa to California (See Dee Brown, Hear that Lonesome Whistle Blow, p. 64). The government decided instead to try to murder as many Indians as possible, women and children included, and then to imprison the survivors in concentration camps euphemistically called "reservations."

When he became president, Grant made his old pal Sherman the commanding general of the U.S. Army and another "Civil War" luminary, General Phillip Sheridan, assumed command on the ground in the West. "Thus the great triumvirate of the Union Civil War effort," writes Fellman (P. 260), "formulated and enacted military Indian policy until reaching, by the 1880s, what Sherman sometimes referred to as ‘the final solution of the Indian problem’" (emphasis added). Other former Union Army officers joined in the slaughter. This included John Pope, O.O. Howard, Nelson Miles, Alfred Terry, E.O.C. Ord, C.C. Augur, Edward Canby, George Armstrong Custer, Benjamin Garrison, and Winfield Scott Hancock.

"Sherman viewed Indians as he viewed recalcitrant Southerners during the war and newly freed people after: resisters to the legitimate forces of an ordered society," writes John Marzalek, author of Sherman: A Soldier’s Passion for Order (p. 380). "During the Civil War," Marzalek continues, "Sherman and Sheridan had practiced a total war of destruction of property . . . . Now the army, in its Indian warfare, often wiped out entire villages . . . . Sherman insisted that the only answer to the Indian problem was all-out war – of the kind he had utilized against the Confederacy."

Sherman, Sheridan, Grant, and the other "Civil War luminaries" all considered Indians to be subhuman and racially inferior to whites, a belief that they used to "justify" their policy of extermination. Sherman also believed that the freed slaves would become "wild beasts" if they were not strictly controlled by whites. "The Indians give a fair illustration of the fate of the negroes if they are released from the control of the whites," he said (See Lee Kennett, Sherman: A Soldier’s Life, p. 297). Sherman sought "a racial cleansing of the land," wrote Fellman. "All the Indians will have to be killed or be maintained as a species of paupers," Sherman declared. Fellman (p. 271) documents that Sherman "gave Sheridan prior authorization to slaughter as many women and children as well as men Sheridan or his subordinates felt was necessary when they attacked Indian villages."

Sherman and Sheridan’s troops conducted more than 1,000 attacks on Indian villages, mostly in the winter months when families would be together. Orders were given to kill everyone and everything, including dogs. A war of extermination was also waged on the American buffalo, since it was the Indians’ chief source of food, winter clothing, and other things (the Indians even made fish hooks out of dried buffalo bones).

The "Indian Wars" were actually a continuation of the policy of extermination that commenced by the Lincoln administration during the War to Prevent Southern Independence. One of the first attacks was the notorious Sand Creek Massacre of November 1864. There was a Cheyenne and Arapaho village located on Sand Creek in southeastern Colorado that had been assured by the U.S. government that it would be safe there. However, another Union Army "luminary," Colonel John Chivington, carried out the government’s plan of reneging on this promise. As described in "Crimsoned Prairie: The Indian Wars," by S.L.A. Marshall who authored thirty books on American military history, Chivington’s orders to his troops were: "I want you to kill and scalp all, big and little; nits make lice."

Marshall describes how the troops "began a full day given over to blood-lust, orgiastic mutilation, rapine, and destruction – with Chivington . . . looking on and approving." Upon returning to Denver, Chivington "and his raiders demonstrated around Denver, waving their trophies, more than one hundred drying scalps. They were acclaimed as conquering heroes, which was what they had sought mainly." "Colorado soldiers have once again covered themselves with glory," one Republican Party newspaper in Colorado proclaimed (Marshall, p. 39).

An even more disgusting account of the Sand Creek massacre is given in the famous book by Dee Brown, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West (p. 89). "When the troops came up to the [squaws], they ran out and showed their persons to let the soldiers know they were squaws and begged for mercy, but the soldiers shot them all . . . . There seemed to be indiscriminate slaughter of men, women and children . . . . The squaws offered no resistance. Every one . . . was scalped."

This type of a war of extermination or genocide was repeated hundreds of times from 1865-1890, when Sherman’s "final solution" was finally realized. Commenting on the butchering of Indian women and children by Custer, Superintendent of Indian Affairs Thomas Murphy remarked in 1868 that it was "a spectacle most humiliating, an injustice unparalleled, a national crime most revolting, that must, sooner or later, bring down upon us or our posterity the judgment of Heaven" (quoted in Dee Brown, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, p. 157).

Custer found that his order to "kill or hang all the warriors" was "dangerous" to his soldiers because it meant "separating them from the old men, women, and children" (Brown, p. 169). So he decided to just kill everyone, women and children included. Marshall, who was the U.S. government’s official historian of the European Theater of War in World War II and the author of thirty books on U.S. military history, called Sheridan’s orders to Custer "the most brutal orders ever published to American troops." Sheridan is credited with the saying that "the only good Indian is a dead Indian," a policy that was endorsed by both Sherman and Grant (who has laughingly been portrayed by court historians recently as some kind of racial hero).

It was the barbaric behavior of these "Civil War luminaries" during the quarter century after Appomattox that was used to "justify" such things as the mass murder of hundreds of thousands of Filipinos by the U.S. Army during the 1899-1902 Filipino revolt against American imperialism. President Theodore Roosevelt "justified" this mass slaughter by calling Filipinos "savages, half-breeds, a wild and ignorant people." William Tecumseh Sherman himself could not have said it better.

September 22, 2011

- - -

Thomas J. DiLorenzo is professor of economics at Loyola College in Maryland and the author of The Real Lincoln; Lincoln Unmasked: What You’re Not Supposed To Know about Dishonest Abe and How Capitalism Saved America. His latest book is Hamilton’s Curse: How Jefferson’s Archenemy Betrayed the American Revolution – And What It Means for America Today.

Copyright © 2011 by LewRockwell.com. Permission to reprint in whole or in part is gladly granted, provided full credit is given.

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House of the Rising Sun -- More of Eric Burdon and the Animals

2011-09-21T22:08:00.003-04:00

Probably the very best of their work. The keyboardist is brilliant.

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Eric Burdon and the Animals

2011-09-21T22:03:00.004-04:00

Check out the jackets and ties. Were these guys sharp or what?

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Insipidity, Thy Name is 'Workplace'

2011-09-21T11:24:00.019-04:00

The small company I work for doesn't offer much in the way of benefits, but it has been generous in supplying coffee -- until just recently.

For a long time, a shelf in the network server room had always had on it a good supply of big tins of ground coffee. When the supply ran low, the big boss would replenish it.

Lately, though, it's run low, then lower still, then lower still with no replenishment in sight.

I could have asked, "What's up with the coffee supply?", but thought better of it. (Inquiry is frowned upon here. One is supposed to have been born knowing everything, as the bosses were.) Instead I adopted the attitude, "Oh, copulate the fornicating coffee!", and resolved to make what arrangements I needed to to keep myself in coffee, while I watched this matter play itself out.

- - -

Yesterday morning, the place was out of coffee entirely. I got through the morning without any, but after lunch I had to drag my marginally conscious self over to the nearby Tim Horton's for a coffee fix. So much for any fantastical notions I may have been harbouring about doing without coffee. But Tim Horton's is no solution for the long haul; at $1.40 for a medium cup, I'd have to forego heating the house this winter to keep a coffee habit going that way.

Later in the afternoon, there was some intercession by one of the bosses, and a tin of coffee showed up back in the usual place. It was still there when I left at five, but I wasn't going to take for granted that it would still be there the next morning; I'd bring a jar of instant coffee with me from home tomorrow.

- - -

This morning, I got into work and started in on my usual routine of preliminaries to the day. I'm always the first one in, so brewing a first pot of coffee has been one of my chores. I went to the lunch room and there by the coffee maker, where there had been a big tin of coffee only yesterday, was only a nice tidy void -- the tin of coffee had been squirreled away somewhere. Good thing I had brought instant with me.

A little later in the morning, a colleague informed me that the coffee had been unsquirreled for a pot, but there was a new directive that had come with it -- we were to use about half the amount of coffee per pot that we had been using. It seems that according to some 'formula' that I'm at a loss to fathom, we'd been going through coffee far too quickly.

I think of this directive as the 'insipidity directive'. Below a certain threshold of brew strength, coffee is insipid and pointless. It's not coffee, it's merely stained water. So, it appears that the free workplace coffee is over for me. That's ok, instant will do; good quality instant coffee is not bad at all, and keeping myself in instant coffee won't bankrupt me. Alternatively, I see that Black & Decker has an inexpensive personal coffee maker out; I must keep an eye out for one.

And to the young people out there eager to get into the work force, I say, "You're bleepin' welcome to it, insipidity directives and all."

- - -

Addemdum -- THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2011

This morning, the big tin of coffee is in its usual place by the coffee maker, but there's a prominent notice taped to its lid. It reads, "ONE SCOOP ONLY!!!"

Fine by me. I'll have my instant coffee at the strength I like it, and the boss is welcome to his tan-coloured water.

# # #

A Poem

2011-09-20T22:10:00.001-04:00

There surely has to be

Enough of me

Left to see me through another day.

Else what's tomorrow for?

The Difference Between Canadians and Americans

2011-09-19T21:12:00.005-04:00

Throughout my childhood, adolescence, young adulthood and right up to about five seconds ago, I've been awash in the pressing question of what differentiates Canadians from Americans. I've had about enough of it. Permit me to attempt an illustration of the difference.

A Canadian Lights a Cigarette

Doug felt a craving for a smoke coming on. He pulled his pack of Indian reserve smokes from his shirt pocket, stuck one in his mouth and lit it with his dollar store lighter.

An American Lights a Cigarette

Charles Jeremy Fitzgerald-Jones Jr. was lounging in his study, contemplating what America's next geopolitical warfare move in the middle east ought to be, when he felt the need of a cigarette come upon him. Charles Jeremy was, most of the time, heroically capable of staving off the need to indulge in the tobacco habit, but now and then it got the better of him, and he gave in to it with graceful reluctance.

With a certainty of purpose born from his years of service in the Marine Corps, he took his pack of Marlboros down from off the mantlepiece, and deftly removed one cigarette from the package. He manfully took the cigarette between his lips and, gracefully, skilfully, withdrew his Zippo lighter from his jacket pocket. With a courageous flick of the lighter's lid, and a masterful thumbing of the lighter's strike-wheel, Charles Jeremy got the lighter to spring forth a flame worthy of his Yankee forebears' invention of fire. With great virility, but at the same time delicacy, he applied the lighter's flame to the yearning tip of the cigarette, and lit it.

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Why Paper Shredders are a Really Good Thing

2011-09-18T10:05:00.008-04:00

I have some small recollection of a novel I read in my adolescence. It was of the historical fiction genre, loosely set in the time and place of the Salem, Massachusetts witch trials (1692-1693).

The novel's protagonist was a teenage orphan girl, who'd been taken in by a family with a very young daughter. The adolescent orphan girl was literate, and took it upon herself to teach the small girl to read and write. The orphan girl got hold of a notebook of blank paper, and a pen and ink, and taught the little girl to write her name. As an exercise, she had the little girl write her name over and over on a page of the notebook.

The notebook was discovered by the little girl's parents, and all hell broke loose.

"Is the orphan a witch?", the parents wondered. "This mischief must cease! Should a witch get hold of this book with our child's name so inscribed, she could conjure with it, and bring God-knows-what manner of wickedness down upon our daughter and our household!"

- - -

So, there you have it -- the reason why you must own a shredder, and shred anything and everything that could possibly be conjured with. Do not give witches material to work with.

(Consider how many witches there may be working at your municipality's recycling facility, where they can sift through people's discards to find stuff to conjure with --scary thought. Consider the intimacy of pen and paper; eye, hand and soul working together as you make marks on paper, be it to write down a bank account number, or to sign your name. Be sure to shred anything that a witch could conceivably conjure with. Better safe than sorry.)

[And if I don't soon get a high-paying job as an advertising executive for a paper shredder manufacturer, there's no justice in this world.]

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Nothing Will be the Same Again

2011-09-16T20:51:00.006-04:00

"Nothing will be the same again" was a thought that occurred to me as I watched the events of 9/11, 2001 unfold on a TV set at my workplace. That was a prescient thought, but what I didn't realize at the time was the manner in which things wouldn't be the same again.

I'd ultimately lose all trust in my 'governors'; all trust in mainstream media's 'reporters'; all trust in 'authority' of any kind whatsoever.

I don't regret the loss; the 'loss' has been liberating -- like losing a great weight off one's shoulders, or losing a parasite from one's guts. My only regret is that I experienced the loss so late in life. Better I'd experienced the loss at the age of about five -- I might have figured out much earlier on how to equip myself to navigate this life, and shrug off the bullshit.

But, better later than never.

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Fart Suppression Theory

2011-09-15T20:59:00.008-04:00

I googled "fart suppression theory", and got back virtually nothing relevant. So, it appears that Redhills Press may be the sole publication in the known universe that has a 'fart suppression theory' to offer the world.

Here's the theory:

When a fart is suppressed, the fart displaces a bit of one's soul. The displaced bit of soul drifts off into the ether little by little by way of various orifices, never to be recovered.

If one suppresses enough farts in one's lifetime, one ultimately ends up with a 'soul' that is nothing more than a great compressed fart.

Take that to the pearly gates and see where it gets you.

Needless to say, the lesson is, "Let 'er rip!" Elevator, taxicab, wherever -- do not risk a needless, tragic comeuppance from Saint Peter for the sake of a bit of transitory decorum in this life on this Earth.

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Keep On Keeping On

2011-09-15T19:45:00.002-04:00

What else can you do?

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There's 'Snail Mail'; There's 'E-Mail'; and There's 'Fireball Mail'

2011-09-14T21:56:00.008-04:00

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"Not Worth the Powder to Blow it to Hell"

2011-09-13T21:53:00.005-04:00

"Not worth the powder to blow it to Hell!" was one of my dad's sayings. There's not much of 'modern' life that one couldn't apply it to.

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A Ride on a Steam Train -- The Orange Blossom Special

2011-09-13T21:41:00.004-04:00

The accompanying 'video' isn't worth the powder to blow it to Hell, but the music is fine.

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Human 'Rights'

2011-09-13T21:18:00.000-04:00

In no 'bill of rights' that I'm aware of is there the 'right to be left alone'. What a glorious, fine 'right' that would be.

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Smoke Much?

2011-09-12T22:57:00.001-04:00

Ya light the brown end, fer chrissakes!

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Johnny Cash -- Redemption

2011-09-11T21:13:00.009-04:00

I'm not much of one for religion, but this is well worth a listen -- Johnny Cash in his later years at his absolute best. The voice of an angel.

We're supposed to believe that Johnny Cash's voice was a random accident of 'evolution'!? I don't think so. There is in the cosmos a divinity beyond our ken. WE ARE NOT RANDOM BITS OF EVOLVED PRIMORDIAL SOUP!

Somebody show me a can of Campbell's Cream of Primordial Soup, and I might start believing in that religion.

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Life-and-Death Drama by My Workshop's Door

2011-09-09T21:14:00.017-04:00

The big guy doesn't always win the fight. A little guy with eight legs and venomous fangs can make out just fine.

The big, spindly fly in the above photograph is trapped in spider silk that doesn't really show in the photo. The little spider low down at the end of one of the insect's legs has the situation well in 'hand'. The spider is winning.

(Please forgive the poor photography. This was going on in a very awkward place, and I'm not that great a photographer under the best of conditions.)

Here's a shot taken just after the struggle ended. The spider is settling in to commence its feast.

This all happened late yesterday evening. This morning, the spider was still on the fly. I disturbed the spider a bit as I tried to get a better photograph, and the spider scampered off a little ways to keep an eye on its prize.

I once witnessed a similar spider take on a much larger earwig in a fight to the death in a corner of a basement window. (I hang out in basements a lot; basements suit me.) How I wish I'd had the gear with me to film the whole struggle -- it went on for several minutes. The intense violence of it made for quite a gripping scene.

The spider finally won. Spiders are formidable little creatures. It's a good thing they don't grow to be the size of dogs. (If they did grow to be the size of dogs, that would sure put to rest the matter of whether citizens ought to carry firearms or not. Kids would be required to carry firearms from the age of five.)

All this spider talk has put me in mind of the poem, "The Spider and the Fly". Here it is:

- - -

The Spider and the Fly

by Mary Howitt

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, " Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome -- will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind Sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple -- there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue --
Thinking only of her crested head -- poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour -- but she ne'er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

# # #

Little Black Beetle

2011-09-06T21:33:00.014-04:00

What do I see on my workshop's floor?

A little black motionless beetle? Dead? Living? Or maybe just a piece of workshop debris that I've mistaken for a beetle.

'Give it a nudge with my foot.

It scurries. It's a little black beetle alright!

'Give it a press and a scrape with my foot, and the cheesy poet within me awakes, as the little black beetle dies:

- - -

Little Black Beetle
by Tom Gaspick

Little black beetle who is no more.

Why'd you come to my workshop's floor?

You could have stayed outside the door.

And beetled about in this world much more.

- - -

And in a world where Barack Obama could be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, I figure the Nobel Prize for literature ought to mine right soon.

# # #

The Post I Should Have Written, Perhaps

2011-09-03T19:49:00.021-04:00

I recently published a somewhat bilious post here that I later regretted and deleted. I also apologized to the gentleman that the biliousness was directed at. He graciously accepted my apology.

Here's more-or-less what I should have written, that would have made my point without the biliousness:

- - -

Fallacies: They're Everywhere, and Even the Best of Us Are Not Immune

An American gentleman whose work I greatly admire recently wrote this:

"Clearly, the ICE (internal combustion engine) is intrinsically inefficient compared to an electric motor, as a huge percentage of the energy consumed by an ICE is lost to heat and friction of its many moving parts."

The part about energy "...lost to heat..." is correct. One could sit and weep for the waste of heat energy that the operation of internal combustion engines entails. But the part about "...friction of its many moving parts."... is a common fallacy that many, unfortunately, take to be true.

Think about it. 'Friction' is what lights matches and sands wood. How much 'friction' could an engine's innards tolerate without the engine seizing up and self-destructing? Not much. Internal combustion engines all have excellent lubrication systems built in that keep friction to a negligible minimum.

So, friction losses in engines are no big deal; the notion that they are is fallacious. (It's a good example of a fallacy that originated God-knows-where, and that just keeps on keeping on.)

After waste heat loss, the biggest loss in an internal combustion engine is the work that needs to be done to execute the pistons' compression strokes; compression strokes don't come for 'free'. They're why a multi-cylinder engine needs to produce several horsepower just to keep itself running, never mind produce some useful output.

(Here's a way to envision it: consider a hard-starting, single-cylinder lawnmower engine that needs many pulls on its starter cord before it will start. Tiring? Well, that work your tired arm did to get the engine to start is what the running engine has to do constantly, just to make itself run.)

I hope I've made my point so far, but my greater point is this -- we are all awash in plausible codswallop -- technical, political, economic, you-name-it; lame explanations of complex phenomena that we're often ill-equipped, by 'education' or experience, to analyze and dispute. And how can a citizen of any alleged 'democracy', with a life to lead, ever manage to sort the wheat from the chaff and be truly 'informed' about anything? Beats me.

# # #

Trained

2011-09-01T19:36:00.009-04:00

'Trained' is a word that picks me up by the shirt collar and tosses me into a wall where I leave dents. 'Trained' technician. 'Trained' doctor'. 'Trained' scientist.

WTF!?

'Training' is what you do with a puppy dog so it gets with the programme, and doesn't shit and piss inside the house. Am I to believe that 'training' is what produces skilled practitioners of complex disciplines? That some master of 'motions-to-be-gone-through' imparts knowledge of those motions, with the aid of a rolled up newspaper, to the ass/brain of a young person and produces a technician, or a doctor or a scientist? Not bleeping likely.

'Training' is one of the most fraudulent notions ever foisted on the world. Human beings are not 'trained'. Human beings 'learn'. There's a difference. And if we'd acknowledge the difference and toss that notion of 'training' onto a stinky-enough rubbish heap where it belongs, we might finally get started on a huge revision of the education 'system'. For starters, we could weed out the 'trainers', hand them a rolled up newspaper and introduce them to a nice puppy in need of 'training'. That would free up a lot of resources for getting on with learning.

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FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2011

Addendum

My son made a fair comment about my take on 'training', by quoting me this extract from a dictionary definition of the word 'train':

"3a: to form by instruction, discipline or drill; b: to teach so as to make fit, qualified, or proficient".

Ok. Fair enough. But that brings me back to something that I've mentioned before -- that "Creation presupposes a creator, and who or what created him/her/it?"

Who 'trained' the trainer? Where did the trainer's training come from?

Let me come at this from a 'hardware' angle.

Measuring instruments interest me greatly; I have many in my workshop. Here's a photograph of one of them -- it's a 0" - 1" micrometer that can resolve down to one-ten-thousandth of an inch.

Now, here's something to ponder -- how do you get from chipping found pieces of flint into arrowheads, to an instrument like the one pictured?

From the top down, or from the bottom up?

There are no teachers/trainers; there are only learners.

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More Flatt & Scruggs -- Foggy Mountain Breakdown

2011-08-31T22:01:00.002-04:00

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